


Asymmetry

by bioplast_hero



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Degradation, Grimdark smut, M/M, Manipulation, Selfcest, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioplast_hero/pseuds/bioplast_hero
Summary: When Lotor meets himself from a mirror reality, he starts playing a dangerous game with a worthy opponent.
Relationships: Lotor/Lotor (Voltron)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: Lotor Week 2020





	Asymmetry

**Author's Note:**

> #LotorWeek Day 2 Prompts: Scars ★ Dubcon/Noncon
> 
> Artist: [Kiki / FrenchPopsicle](https://twitter.com/FrenchPopsicle) made the incredible art for this fic. 🖤
> 
> No beta; with dark!fic we die like men. ;)

The prince grimaces as he uses his gloves to wipe away a layer of dust from the gilded mirror. Even through the grime, the thing is quite beautiful, taller than he is and set in an ornate frame like twining vines of gold, clusters of fine rubies dangling like the sweetest fruit.

The metalwork is not Galran; it is too fine, the work beyond the reach of any craft Lotor has sampled across the empire. But familiar, somehow. Something about those berries tugs at Lotor’s memory, just out of reach—

No matter. He came in search of decoration, and he’s found just that. It sparks some hope in him, lifts the deep chill he felt at returning to the imperial palace and finding his suite barren, lifeless and cold— too much like his memory of the place, before.

Before he was left in the care of tutors, pages and royal stewards until his twentieth year. There in the countryside, Lotor found diversion, even peace, if not exactly companionship. Friendship wasn’t meant for him, it seemed, or he for it.

Lotor glances at his glove, now ruined, and tugs it off. He tosses the pair of stained gloves at the foot of the great mirror. He’ll have a servant polish it to a shine and bring it to his private chambers.

Perhaps then the place won’t be quite so dull.

//

Lotor is in his dressing gown, just out of the bath, when a pair of attendants bring the mirror. The woman enters first and bows low, attempting to hide her blush, but Lotor already noted it.

“Just over there,” he points to the wall opposite the divan where he likes to recline with his wine. Lotor brought the couch all the way from the country, and irritating as it no doubt was for his handlers, the prince finds that he is indeed glad that he insisted. The damask is the color of cream with gold thread outlining great blossoms. With the mirror, too, he can almost pretend that the place doesn’t remind him of a mausoleum.

How can his father stand this place, after his mother’s death? Looking around, it seems very much that the Emperor prefers to pretend that he, too, died on that day. Perhaps life and color reminds his father painfully of what it is to feel.

“Your highness,” the two stewards stand at attention with the mirror between them, like toy soldiers. Lotor finds it comical, but restrains the impulse to laugh. Maybe he’d rather be laughing _with_ them than at them.

The woman he already found pleasing, spirited, strong like a corded whip, but the man doesn’t disappoint, either. A faint lavender blush paints the man’s cheeks as he holds his salute, unwavering in his focus on the prince.

If want suddenly coils in Lotor’s belly, it’s extinguished just as quickly by the knowledge that what he truly wants isn’t warmth in his bed, someone to know him, understand him. Maybe even challenge him.

“That will be all,” Lotor dismisses them. It’s a bit colder than he meant for it to sound, but he’s tired. Pretending not to feel is exhausting in its own way.

“Yes, Sir,” the woman answers when the man’s tongue seems caught. They retreat quickly, leaving him alone.

Lotor surveys the room. There’s still far too much gray-on-gray, but the divan and the gilded mirror really do wonders to raise his spirits. He’d rustled up some drapes, as well, which would be brought as soon as they could be laundered. He found them hanging in an old library that had long ago been relieved of its books— tragic, that. The prince could see in his mind’s eye the deep red cloth like cherry wine, woven in an older, ornate style that spoke of the years when Daibazaal and Altea were yet allies.

It helped to remember there was a time before the war.

Lotor paced toward the mirror, polished to a high gleam, so clean that the reflection could simply be another room that lay beyond the surface. An arm’s length from the glass, Lotor studies his face.

He appreciates his Altean marks, the ‘blemish’ that his father hates to see— surely reminding the emperor of the love he lost and the genocide he started. Lotor had learned to make up his own mind about his heritage, about his alien appearance, the cascade of moonlight hair and the marks of his mother’s people. He thinks the marks look very fine.

The quirk of his eyebrow is graceful, if he may say so himself, his lashes long and luxurious, and his eyes deep with feeling. He always liked his eyes, the sense that he could never quite disguise his true heart, if one knew where to look for it. Were there only someone with whom he could be truly honest, truly… himself. 

His cheekbones and the line of his jaw are perhaps a bit sharp, devilish even, but handsome all the same.

And his mouth. Lips full and a blushed lavender like they’re well-kissed, though that must be the wine. He would kiss lips such as these, given the chance—

“Then kiss me,” the lips move. Lotor startles, not quite sure whether he’d spoken the thought aloud. Strange. Stranger still is the smile that spreads over that face. It is not one that he is currently wearing, though it is very much his own smile.

Only having himself for company this long, perhaps he’s finally begun to lose his damn mind.

“Shy, are we?” his reflection asks gently, charmed. “Don’t make me beg, your highness.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lotor replies. _To himself._

For a moment, Lotor reads the look in his reflection’s eyes; there’s a yearning there, to be seen, understood. Then it shutters, his gaze polite and yet closed. Lotor knows that look, too. He wears it often.

“My apologies,” the other nods his head in the barest of bows. “It was inappropriate of me. I only saw you looking, and thought… perhaps,” he trails off, pressing his lips into a long line. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

“No, wait, I—“

The reflection moves with him. Lotor stands there alone, talking to himself. Whatever madness it was, it is gone now.

Lotor swallows, noting the roiling feeling in his stomach and the way his throat bobs in answer. No, not in answer. _The same._ There is no _other_ here, he scolds himself.

But when the prince passes the mirror again that night on the way to his bedchamber, he pauses again just to look.

Just to be sure.

//

Lotor wakes in a rush, spine arched as he gasps. He’s haunted by the sensation of a lingering touch, fading fast. His eyes dart around the room in alarm as he grasps the duvet on either side of him. He is alone.

Disquieted, the prince squints down at the spend on his bare chest. He hasn’t come in his sleep like a novice in many years. He recalls fragments of his fantasy, a strong grip bruising his ribs as his cock is swallowed deep. Did he really come untouched? Strange to call it that, when the touch felt so real.

The prince would demand an explanation if he could, anxious for answers, but from whom? When nothing is forthcoming in the silence of his bed, he stalks to the washroom in a foul mood.

Beside the steaming tub he finds a silk robe hanging for him, featherlight and black as pitch. Servants handle his bedding, and when he emerges from bathing Lotor feels he has almost repelled the stain of a fitful night’s sleep. He takes a bracing gulp of hot tea before dressing in the necessary courtly attire, preparing himself for a day spent utterly bored.

Lotor checks his appearance in the gilded mirror on his way out. He knows it is an excuse to study the image closely for anything troubling. It’s just a mirror, he’s almost sure, save for the unnerving gleam in his eyes that he doesn’t recognize as his own.

A trick of the light, nothing more.

//

“The nerve!” Lotor’s voice booms into his chambers as he enters, slamming the door behind him.

Much of his day at court was just as frightfully dull as he expected it to be. Until his father saw fit to humiliate his son and heir for the stain of his mixed lineage. The assembled lords lapped it up. 

Lotor strips his uniform off as he sulks through his apartment, leaving a trail of strewn garments for his servants to gather. He will no longer play the part of the good little courtier, not for his father’s entertainment or anyone else’s. If someone needs to consult with the prince about something— and really, that seems laughable at this moment— then the bastards can come to him.

Until that time, or until hell freezes over should that occasion arrive first, he’ll be right here: reclining in a silk bathrobe, reading the classics, ordering strong tea and stronger wine. His vice has two moods, and he’ll pit them against one other like the champions of two clashing armies bent on mutual destruction.

Lotor drapes the dark silk around his shoulders, feeling it settle— cool against his skin, but almost alive, already warming as he knots the sash in front. He carries his reading to the sofa where a pitcher of wine and a goblet already await him, as though the staff saw his mood coming for a mile.

The prince checks the mirror— he’ll admit to that much. But then he is determined to ignore it. He stretches his long legs over the upholstery, reclining and doing his utmost, with all stubbornness, to enjoy himself. He takes a sip of the wine.

“Bad day?”

Lotor lurches up from his seat at the sound of that voice, _his_ voice. His reflection follows him. Sort of.

“You!” Lotor accuses.

The reflection that isn’t bound by his will shifts on his feet, cocking one hip with a wry smile. 

“Were you looking for me?” he asks. “Goodness, after so long, I rather like how it feels to be _wanted_. To be missed.”

“What are you?” Lotor booms the question into the silence of his royal chambers, setting the goblet down more roughly than is necessary. He’s half-shouting. He doesn’t care.

“I am what you are,” his not-reflection answers him. “Unhappy. Stifled. Terribly bored,” the man huffs a laugh, then sobers. “Lonely.”

Lotor sniffs irritably. “You don’t speak for me. You don’t know how I feel.”

“But I do.” The words are soft, somber. Like one who wants to be heard, but reluctant to trust that this can ever be so. 

Lotor reads his tone like an impression of his own mind, knowing every twist of what it means. It grips Lotor’s heart, this feeling. For all the times he’s wanted so desperately to be seen and truly _known,_ how can he deny his own self that in return? Someone who is truly just like him.

“I am… sorry,” Lotor says quietly, as wary as he is sincere. “It’s not every day one meets his own reflection. But you are right.”

“I am?” The man in the mirror looks surprised, hopeful. Blue and gold eyes flutter up to meet his, catching the light just so. Arresting.

“It is stifling,” Lotor answers, “but you know that, don’t you? You feel what I feel.”

“I would imagine so,” comes the reply. “We are the same.”

“How is it you can speak to me, from wherever you are?”

“I cannot speak of it,” the second soul answers, “or the spell will break. But if this can be enough between us,” he trails off.

“What?”

The reflecting smiles at him and it is sad. “It is worth all the trouble, just to know I am not alone.”

Lotor steps closer to the mirror, and although it seems his reflection need not comply, there’s a comfort in it, too: the way they move together. The way they want the same things, _choose_ the same things.

“You were in my dream,” Lotor wonders aloud as they approach each other, each studying the other. “Were you not?”

“Not exactly,” the reflection replies, that one strand of his silver hair bobbing softly as he shakes his head. “It was my dream too. My desire.”

“I felt hands on me,” Lotor says.

“So did I,” the answer comes.

Something twists in the prince’s gut, a nervous excitement. “They were not your hands?”

His double cracks a tiny smile, glancing away. “I thought they were yours.”

_Oh._

“Incredible,” the prince shivers. Then the thought slams into him. “You wanted my hands on you.”

It’s not a question. He knows— he wanted the same, but now Lotor’s thoughts are changing, the fantasy swelling until it is this other man in his hands, opening for him, pleading with his eyes to be taken, to be ruined.

The man in the mirror blinks his eyes closed at the prince’s words, lux lashes fanning against his lavender skin. He’s stunning, really: supple and soft in all his undeniable strength.

“Is that so wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Lotor replies honestly, while the desire burns hot like a star in his chest. While he thinks on what to say, his reflection fingers the collar of his robe, trailing long, elegant fingers down his breastbone where his skin is bared. 

He could resist, but he doesn’t want to; he mimics the motion himself, brushing fingertips over the soft fur of his chest, slipping down until he’s parting the wrapped silk. The reflection follows, arrested, a blush dusting his cheeks. Lotor wants to kiss him.

Fingertips bump along his lower ribs and then over his defined abdominals as the silk sash slips fully and the robe hangs open from his shoulders to his knees. 

“Handsome,” the prince murmurs. The body is familiar, of course, all the details known and yet thrilling and new, seeing them in this way. Lotor likes seeing his own cock and feeling it is someone else’s. He knows the shape, the distinctive curve as it hardens, flushed purple at the head and along the ridges that trail up the shaft. 

“You are a sight, truly.” Lotor draws his eyes up from his hardening cock to find his face, eyes dark and lips subtly parted in a sigh. He can only guess he looks the same.

“Touch me,” his reflection whispers. It’s like lightning in his veins.

Lotor slides his hand down through the mound of longer, silvery fur at the base of his shaft, combing his nails over the sensitive flesh beneath. When his fingers close around the base of his cock, he rumbles a little sound of pleasure low in his throat.

After a moment, he realizes his shadow is not following him now. The man stands there frozen, looking on with intense interest. Yet he doesn’t move.

“Is this alright?”

His reflection startles, remembering himself. “Sorry,” he mutters, moving to match Lotor’s grip and his short, teasing pulls at the base. But his expression gives him away— something unhappy in it.

“Do not be sorry,” the prince answers. He reaches as though to stroke a lover’s cheek, tuck his hair behind his ear, but hesitates. He can’t, can he? There’s no one there.

The reflection flinches as Lotor lowers his hand.

“Tell me what is wrong,” Lotor says. “I will listen.”

The man in the mirror pouts. “I wanted you to touch _me._ I’m sorry, it’s just not the same.”

Lotor’s mouth feels dry. “I would. I want to,” he rumbles, voice trembling. “But it isn’t possible,” he says. “Is it?”

His reflection studies him and there’s judgement in it, thinly veiled. “You give up so easily.”

“Hey now!” Lotor balks, stepping even closer to the glass. His reflection doesn’t follow. The imbalance tugs at Lotor’s mind, something feels _off._ He wants to reach for him, pull him into position. The glass is so clear, so unobstructed, he imagines for a moment that he can—

_Impossible._

“I should have known better,” the other moves to pull away, and Lotor can’t take it. It’s like it’s always been: everyone leaves. Everyone goes, so willing to give him up, to leave him behind. And now his own self, too, looking bitterly disappointed.

Lotor moves without thinking, reaching to catch the other’s wrist as he turns. Just like that, he does it. He feels his own flesh under the pads of his fingers and grips, harder than he should. 

Where his arm passes through the mirror’s frame he isn’t even sure; there’s no indication, nothing at all to see how deep in it he’s gotten himself. Elbow-deep, probably, and not about to let up now.

“It is _you_ who gives up so easily,” the prince accuses. The heat in his voice isn’t anger but lust.

“Lotor,” the other says, and the prince shivers with his own need. The reflection steps close until he’s mirroring Lotor’s stance again. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he says. “I’ve waited long enough. Touch me.”

Lotor growls, sliding his hand up the other’s arm to his collarbone, then trailing his knuckles down the sculpted muscle of his chest. His reflection shudders, reaching for his hand. His claws are sharp, desperate to hang on.

“More,” his other self says. The word tingles over his senses.

Lotor splays his palm over the other’s belly, thumb stroking teasing circles just shy of where the head of his cock curves to meet his abs, fully hard and beading at the tip. The perfect mirror of his own, but separate and real under his grasp.

“How far will this go?”

“As far as you let it,” comes the answer. “I will not stop you.”

“You won’t.” It’s not a question. He knows the man won’t, if he’s anything like himself. He wants to submit, to a point. Not as much as he wants to take.

“No,” he answers, gasping as Lotor finally swirls his thumb around the head of his cock, trailing slickness over his sensitive skin. “I’ve wanted this.”

The prince wraps the other’s heavy cock in a firm grip. It’s familiar and utterly different, the angle, the receiving sensation that never comes. It’s new, feeling the shape of himself with only the nerves of his hand, brushing over the ridges he knows are so very sensitive.

“And what else?” Lotor wonders, stepping closer, his free hand palming the muscle of his chest, lingering on its way up to his neck. He cups the back of the man’s head, fingers sliding into the soft hair at his nape.

“This too,” his reflection answers in a shaky voice, gaze skimming over Lotor’s lips. It’s all the invitation Lotor needs before he’s crashing their lips together, giving one firm pull exactly how he likes it best as he tastes his own tongue for the first time.

A heady mewl meets his ears— it’s his own, but it’s not, he didn’t make that sound. It’s the man in his arms, gasping into his mouth, back arching as the prince’s strokes find a rhythm that will finish him all too quickly. The voice he knows best hums and groans, muffled where their lips tangle, and his whole frame tenses in his grasp.

“Hnn—” he pants. It’s almost a protest, but it’s useless as one as it only spurs Lotor on. He wants to feel him come. Now.

He does, almost immediately. Lotor nips the other’s lip as his grip tightens on him, pulling his body flush against his hip as the man streaks Lotor’s belly in milky white. He feels his cock pulsing in his grip, dizzy with the thought of knowing exactly how it feels.

“Impatient, are we?” the other man laughs lightly, swooning in his post-climax bliss. “You could have drawn that out, you know.”

Lotor feels a smile contort his lips, sly and dangerous. “You said I shouldn’t keep you waiting,” he answers. “Careful what you wish for.”

The other flashes him a look, something heightened and almost alarmed. Then he cups the prince’s balls, the heel of his hand kneading into the base of his shaft. The touch is perfect, exactly how Lotor always desires to be touched, long fingers pressing into his flesh and exposing all of his hidden needs.

His reflection moves to drag his hand up to the tip, but Lotor yanks his hand away. He hardly realizes the decision he’s made, stepping forward into the room that is his but not. It’s all backwards. It might make him sick, really, if Lotor could tear his eyes away from the man under his hands for long enough to look properly.

“On your knees,” he orders. The other flushes like he hates how he loves that, and obeys. The prince looks down at himself, that handsome face tipped up and eyes looking raw. Lotor revels in the power, at what he’s being given and the respect it imparts. He seldom feels so powerful.

Lotor needn’t give further instruction. This man knows what he wants, how he wants it. Gripping the base, the other opens his mouth wide to slide his cockhead over his broad, slick tongue. 

He’s not sucking, not using his lips— not yet. Lotor likes to watch first, likes to see his cock breach his waiting mouth, in and out. And the sight is better than it’s ever been: his own mouth, his own tongue. Himself, on his knees, taking his cock in and… waiting, so patiently. Until Lotor is ready to take what is his.

That mouth really is quite charming. Especially when it pulls up in the shadow of a smile, a silent laugh, despite holding wide open for his cock.

“Have something you want to say, whore?”

The other’s eyes blow wide and the smile vanishes with a punched-out little breath. He shakes his head slowly, the side-to-side motion sending shivers of sensation down Lotor’s dick at the slick slide of the man’s tongue.

“Then swallow it.”

Lotor is too proud to moan as his cock is taken, hard and fast to the hilt, but it’s so delicious it almost hurts. The prince resists, his resolve ironclad as he trades a needy whimper for a growl and fists his hand in long, soft locks.

“That’s right,” he says, shifting back and thrusting back in. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it? A cock to choke on. Even if it’s your own.”

The vibration tingles along Lotor’s shaft as his double tries and fails to mewl with him fully seated inside. He’s struggling, his reflexes protesting as Lotor withdraws only a little, only enough to fuck back into that protesting hole. He’s harsher each time, more violent as he takes what he wants and knows full well the other will suffer it, too proud to back down.

His throat feels incredible, tongue catching along the ridges that send electricity coursing up his spine. Lotor groans then, luxuriating and fully in control.

Pulling out roughly, he yanks the other’s hair, tipping his face fully up where he can see it all. Tears stand in his eyes but no less desire than before.

“You wanted this,” Lotor accuses. “You wanted all of this. You want me to debase you. Be cruel to you.”

The man’s lip trembles. He’s never seen such a look on his own face; he needs it more than breath.

“And why would I? Worthless,” Lotor spits the word, shoving him off. “I don’t need just another hole I can fuck. There are plenty that are willing.”

The other catches himself, splayed back awkwardly. “Not like me,” he gasps, voice ruined. “You can destroy me. I’ll let you.”

Lotor stares. It’s a shock, more than he thought possible. Doesn’t he know everything about this man, about what he is capable? There’s something disturbing about being surprised.

Is this what _he_ craves, as well? It vexes him, feeling unsure.

The other blinks up at him from the floor. “Have you ever wanted to wreck anyone more than yourself?”

He can’t deny how that rings true. The feeling pools in his blood, cold and dark. He wants to destroy himself. And he can, and no one will know.

“On your knees,” Lotor growls. 

There’s a threat in it, a dangerous _or else_ , and the other flushes even as he complies. The man drops the robe from his shoulders as he goes, naked and on display at his feet. Lotor devours the sight of his skin glistening just slightly from their exertions. 

Lotor is on him in a moment, slipping the wet tip of his dick past his hole and up the cleft of his ass. He’s all muscle, firm and lean, a formidable force. And yet letting himself be taken.

“I take it back,” Lotor sneers. “Not worthless. Useful.” He presses the tip of his cock into the body before him, too dry and yet too desperate to refuse the touch he fucking asked for. The man cries out, voice creeping up painfully as the intrusion doesn’t stop or slow. The cry becomes a whimper as his double hangs his head and stays put.

“And I intend to use you up.”

It’s brutal, how he tears into the man, his grip biting into those lean hips. His next shout scatters as more cries follow, hot and helpless as Lotor drives hard into his intimate flesh. The spine beneath him arches as the other wills himself to endure. 

It looks like ferocious effort, to be plain. Not the bliss of the fantasy, perhaps? Not that Lotor slows his battering thrusts in any way.

“Needy slut,” he sneers. “I had no idea. You surprise me, truly. We are not the same, you and I. I would never crouch and take it like a bitch in heat.”

There’s a hiss and Lotor tenses for a fight, but it never comes. He pistons his hips at a punishing pace, the ride slicker than before no doubt from all the damage done. The man beneath him clenches his fists in the carpet, trembles, and says nothing.

“Say it,” Lotor snarls. “Say you like it. Say you want it. Say you’d do anything I demand.”

The man’s spine bows down, drooping and defeated. It makes Lotor’s blood thunder with malignant desire. He knows he’s won. He slams into the man’s body with cruel force and holds himself there, bending to suck at the knot of bone at the top of his spine. Pressed along the length of his body, he feels how the body beneath him trembles and tries uselessly to shift his hips.

“No,” Lotor says with a hard nip to his flesh. “Not until you beg for it.” Then he bites down hard into the meat of the other self’s shoulder.

The cry that breaks through his lips is lewd and wretched. “Stop that,” he whimpers. “Just fuck me, please,” he says quickly, voice shaking. “That’s all I want.”

Lotor bites harder, breaking the skin this time. The man struggles, but it’s miserable and torn. _He’s at war with himself,_ Lotor thinks. _In more ways than one._

He suckles over the bite wound, tasting a hint of iron as he grinds his hips forward in a slow, torturous circle. The other pants, desperate for more of the fucking he was getting before, then whines when it doesn’t come.

“I could do this all day,” Lotor says with a venomous smile. He presses his lips to the man’s neck, tucked just beneath his ear. “Beg.”

“P-please,” his other self rasps, breath caught on a shaky sob. “Use me. Fuck me like the whore I am. I know what they all say about me,” he breathes with his eyes pinched closed.

That strikes a nerve.

Lotor pulls back, then spears him hard on his cock with a yank of the other’s waist— just once and hard, and then he holds.

“Keep telling me,” Lotor snarls at the nape of his neck. “You stop, I stop.” He gives one more mean thrust to make his point.

“Nnah, you know what they say!” The other shouts beneath him. “Better a courtesan than a monarch. They know. They all know, how many servants we’ve had. How many don’t last.” He chokes on the words as Lotor fills him again and again.

“And yet?” Lotor punctuates his words with the slamming of his hips. He’s seeing red, filled with murderous rage at this court and this sick excuse for a family he’s struck with.

The man beneath him droops miserably even as he moans with sick need. 

“It’s never far enough. This hunger we can’t fill. I know,” he cries. “You want someone you can ruin, and it may as well be me. If I’m a whore, than so are you.”

There’s a defiant spark in that, and it ignites something Lotor hardly recognizes. He respects it. This one will do anything that must be done. The knowledge trips along his nerves. This potent dance will end in flames, that is certain, and suddenly he’s not so sure he’ll be the final victor.

“Break me,” the other whimpers, “if you think you can. I welcome it.”

Lotor sees red. One violent thrust after another tips him toward release, and that precipice alarms him for some reason he can’t explain. But his bloodlust wins, his cock throbbing riotously as each ridge catches over the rim of the other’s now-gaping hole. One clawed hand digs into the meat of his double’s bare hip while the other circles his throat. He doesn’t squeeze, not yet, but he likes the threat of it.

As he thunders over the edge and comes, Lotor bites the man’s neck with ferocity. He wants to hear himself scream— and he does, oh he does beautifully.

He’s spasming with wicked pleasure, but so is the other man, spending himself shamefully on the floor. Lotor wants to laugh. He wants to cry. The release has him dizzy and his vision fading into spots. 

He’s slumping down, loose in a way he’s never felt. What a ride! That must be it, all the blood in his cock that really should be in his brain. His stomach flips, uneasy as he loses his grip and tumbles to the floor.

He watches himself smile down over him, murderous and sharp on his tear-blotched face. The other’s eyes are a little more wild than he expected.

Lotor realizes with absolute terror that he can no longer move. He’s paralyzed, sprawled on the rug, a repulsive mess of violence and spend leaking from his softening cock. He feels it, wet at this hip, but he can’t even shift his head to look down at himself. He can’t even speak.

“Look at you,” the other purrs, sliding a claw along his jaw. “Mine now.”

_No. No, wait, you can’t—_

“You don’t know yourself very well,” his double replies. “When have you ever wanted what you just did to me?”

The other stands, long and languid and walks leisurely out of view. Lotor struggles with every taut nerve in his body. He remains motionless, voiceless, in shambles on the floor.

“You never suspected there might be something more in it for me, hm?” He hears him close, sees the edges of him as he crouches behind his bowed back. He feels the bite of metal— shackles locking around his wrists. 

The panic swells and crests but there is no relief. 

“Don’t worry,” the voice pierces the resounding silence. “The paralysis will wear off, but by then it will be too late.” One of his long fingers points at the mirror in the room that’s all reversed and _wrong._ “You’ll never cross that threshold again.”

His vile double leans close, suckles at the lobe of his ear. Lotor wants nothing more than to rip out that tongue as it gives him another repulsive lick.

“Mine,” he says, “for always. And you know how I’ve always wanted someone I could truly, utterly destroy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [**twitter**](https://twitter.com/bioplast_hero)!
> 
> Other Lotor works by this author:
> 
>   * Leithal threesome [Hers, Thine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874854)
>   * Lotura ABO [Lotus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079196)
>   * Keitor sparring [Back For More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202277)
>   * Mattor slowburn [Aren't I the Lucky One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171101)
>   * Mattor fear boner [The Lies We Tell Ourselves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130469)
>   * Shotor fwb [Unspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127079)
>   * Sheitor voyeurism [His Eyes Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123509)
> 

> 
> I live and breathe your comments, including emoji dances and keysmashes— all welcome. Thank you for reading. 🖤


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